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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26777818">if we want a garden</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone'>philthestone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Outlander (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Family Fluff, Gen, but also exists as a standalone, me and my thematic agendas are back at it again, technically in the same universe as 'easy easy (my man and me)', u can see it in cycles, when im most at peace w myself i write plotless kidfic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:42:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,064</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26777818</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Donas only listens t'Da," Bree takes it upon herself to inform the unwitting occupant of the passenger seat. The old, decrepit minivan makes a second and decidedly more menacing rattling noise beneath their bums, and refuses to turn on.</p><p>"Sorry about this," Claire says, and tries the ignition again. John says,</p><p>"You named your van?" sounding less concerned than he should be. But also, not <i>without</i> concern.</p><p>"<i>Jamie</i> named our van," she says.</p><p>"It means devil in Gàidhlig!" Faith adds helpfully, whilst beside her, William, in his carseat, starts humming that horrid baby shark song in tuneless three-year-old tones.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Claire Beauchamp &amp; Faith Fraser, Claire Beauchamp &amp; Jenny Fraser, Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser, Faith Fraser &amp; Murtagh Fraser, Jamie Fraser &amp; Faith Fraser &amp; Brianna Fraser &amp; William Fraser</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>119</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>if we want a garden</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello, its me again</p><p>technically this exists in the same universe as "easy, easy (my man and me)". but also because neither fic has plot, you can read them as standalones.</p><p>the title is from the wonderful "crowded table" by the highwomen, and incidentally also why i am dedicating this to @birdhapley, who doesnt go here but introduced me to that beautiful song and deserves recognition.</p><p>reviews are love. autumns going to be hard this year, and winter harder. please take care of yourselves &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been enough hours of waiting that Bree’s fallen asleep, her small cheek squished into the corduroy of the couch that lines the kitchen wall. Her bright hair blends into the burgundy in odd places; Jenny hasn’t lit the fireplace yet, and with all the coming and going, no one’s thought to turn the lights on.</p><p>Murtagh gets up to do so now. </p><p>Then he sits back down, and picks up his needles again.</p><p>“Weel then,” he says. “How’s it lookin’, <em>a leannan</em>.”</p><p>Faith has dropped three stitches and looks to be waging battle with a fourth. Still -- he has decided she’s a natural.</p><p>“I’m <em>learnin</em>’, Unca Murtagh,” she informs him. </p><p>He’d been there a few weeks ago when the <em>learning </em>conversation was first had. People did things to <em>learn</em> them, and that was important just by itself. Claire was always so good with having talks of those sorts with the bairns. Even when it was just Wee Jamie, and she was the strange English lass Jamie brought home from the city.</p><p>“‘Tis verra good of ye,” he says, then takes her hands gently in his and loops the next stitch around for her. Lord. He never thought he knew how to be so gentle before.</p><p>They get through five more stitches before there is a loud set of footsteps from upstairs, and voices, and a door slamming. Mrs. Crook appears in the kitchen doorway, nearly invisible behind the stack of clean towels she’s holding, says, “Not long now!”, crosses herself, and then disappears. </p><p>The sudden noise has made Bree hiccup in her sleep. Faith says,</p><p>“Unca Murtagh, I dinna think I want t’share my hair clips an’ things again.”</p><p>He grunts, to cover his small laugh. “Och. Who said ye must share yer hair clips?”</p><p>Faith takes this inquiry as he presents it, frowning and staring deeply into the depths of the unlit fireplace. She taps one overlarge knitting needle against the side of her head. Jamie has informed him that this is her <em>thinking face</em>. </p><p>She’s such a tiny wee thing, Murtagh thinks. Always smaller than her age, where Bree is already gangly. And those glasses of hers, purple plastic and wrap-around -- they make her eyes look half the size of her dainty little face.</p><p>“Mama uses my hair clips in Bree’s hair sometimes.” A pause. “Which is <em>alright</em>, Unca Murtagh. But I dinna want t’do it <em>again</em>. I don’t think.”</p><p>He wonders how his old fool’s heart has not yet turned to butter and melted right out of his chest. </p><p>Perhaps he’ll ask Ellen about it. Wee Jamie and Maggie have long since been put to bed, and everyone else is upstairs with the midwife. Ian’s standing by in case they need to call for the ambulance, which he doesn’t want to think about. </p><p>Claire insisted on a home birth this time -- he’s no idea about it here or there -- but despite it all Lallybroch is fair quiet, is the <em>point</em>, when he says, </p><p>“D’ye ken, <em>a leannan</em>, the only thing ye must do?” </p><p>She shakes her head. It makes the twin bushes of her pigtails bob, somehow still in place just as they were done up by Claire yesterday morning, before the labour pains started. </p><p>“Ye look out fer yer wee siblings. Wi’ love an’ care. Like yer parents look out fer you.”</p><p>“Oh,” Faith says, eyes wide.</p><p>“Aye,” he agrees. “Jest so,” and continues to help her with the knitting.</p><p> </p><p>Claire has handed William off to Jenny in time for her hands to be tugged on insistently.</p><p>“Auntie, come play!”</p><p>Faith is already covered in grass stains, which does not bode well for the white t-shirt Claire’s wearing. She’s bouncing up and down beside Wee Jamie, who is equally mud-covered, and the source of the excitable demand.</p><p>“Not today I think, lovey,” Claire says.</p><p>“Mama doesn’t like ball games,” Faith informs her cousin. But she doesn’t sound too fussed about it. Claire likes to imagine that she respects the need to have a good relaxing sit-down sometimes.</p><p>Her Jamie has jogged up to their blankets from where he and Ian and Fergus are roughhousing with the kids. He’s holding a giggling Bree under his arm like one might hold a rugby ball, which is exactly what they’re supposed to be playing.</p><p>“Mama!” she cries. Her red pigtails match her father’s -- Maggie and Faith made him sit through a styling session that morning -- though Bree’s are longer. They hang down on each side of her head and swing as Jamie rocks her back and forth.</p><p>He leans forward so Claire can shove a stick of celery between his teeth.</p><p>“When we were in school yer Mam’d come out wi’ me an’ the lads all the time,” he says, muffled.</p><p>This is true. Claire crunches down on her own piece of carrot, grinning the sort of grin that hides girlhood secrets. She decides it is best not to bring up rather vivid memories of dislocated shoulders.</p><p>“I did,” she confirms, wiping a bit of grass stain from Faith’s nose with a practiced thumb.</p><p>“She had a mean tackle,” Jamie tells their upside down daughter. Then he leans down to hoist up daughter number two, flashes Claire a sparkling grin, and jogs back into the thick of things, ducking to avoid one of little Maggie’s unexpectedly powerful throws. </p><p>“Give yer wee sister an’ cousin a kiss afore ye go,” Jenny instructs her bright-eyed son.</p><p>“<em>Mam</em>,” Wee Jamie complains. But he does so with the dutiful consideration of <em>eldest</em>, kiss bestowed gallantly upon Caitlin and Willie’s heads in turn. Then he slingshots back into the fray. His dark head shines in the yellow light of outdoor June. </p><p>Claire sits in the sunshine with her sister-in-law, soaking up the warmth, feeling her fingers melt into the tartan underneath them like she’s made of sugar syrup. They’ve brought the kitchen outside with them, and snacks litter the grass at Claire’s ankles. Willie burbles, which reminds her of the ache in her breasts that signals feeding time soon. But she doesn’t want to move quite yet. It’s a weekend, and maternity leave is not yet over, and the game has seemed to pick up. Ian runs around with his tiny namesake tucked against his neck, escaping a laughing Fergus, whose delicate frame has not quite filled out of boyhood yet. Claire can’t be sure of the rules -- she’s not sure it entirely qualifies as rugby anymore -- but it looks as though Jamie’s rallied all the rest of his children to his side, and is instructing them in the art of offense like an army general whose troops consist entirely of bouncing monkeys. </p><p>Claire watches him swing Bree back up into the air with a crow of triumph. It’s an easy gesture, full of that unique cocktail of assured strength and deliberate gentleness that always has her toes curling.</p><p>“I ken that look on yer face,” Jenny says.</p><p>“Shut up,” Claire tells her. But she can’t stop grinning. Willie burbles again and swings one chubby baby fist, so she takes it in her hand and tweaks his little finger. That always makes him giggle, she thinks. </p><p>Then she turns back, and continues soaking up the sight of her family.</p><p> </p><p>The first morning of Christmas hols there’s a request for pancakes – <em>chocolate,</em> <em>not</em> <em>blueberry, Mama –</em> and the subsequent pajama-clad shuffle through the kitchen that sees even Claire’s farmboy of a husband sleep-softened and loose-limbed. He’s teasing and tactile as he asks whether their breakfast shall be burnt this time. </p><p><em>Rhetorically</em>. The bastard.</p><p>It’s raining sort of torrentially outside, which should put them all out of sorts, but it hasn’t. Maybe because it’s the holidays -- but Claire, fancifully perhaps, thinks that on odd days there is a bit of magic in the house. Like they are all made to be around each other, like this. </p><p>Their breakfast is <em>not</em> burnt. Claire is midway through congratulating herself on it when there is the distinctive feel of a toddler-sized hand pressed against her right buttock. She turns around to see William’s gummy, giggly smile.</p><p>“We don’t put our hands on other people’s bottoms, Mr. William,” Claire informs him. She’s fully prepared to follow the comment up with a smile and a gentle bopping of his nose, but Bree – who has been perched upon the kitchen counter for the past ten minutes, nose-deep in her twentieth reading of <em>Judy Moody, The Doctor Is In</em> and filching strawberries from the colander in the sink – says matter-of-factly,</p><p>“But <em>Mama</em>, there’s already a hand on your bottom, an’ things.”</p><p>Jamie is at the kitchen table playing some word game with Faith. It’s the Saturday morning sort -- one of those that toe the line between sleepy and excitable, that start purely as a Da-crafted challenge and then devolve into the secretive silliness he shares with each of the children. </p><p>At Bree’s words he coughs, loudly and inelegantly, into his coffee cup. </p><p>Claire looks down. There’s a distinctly familiar handprint painted in pancake flour over the right arse of her yoga pants.</p><p>“Breakfast!” she says loudly. Then, when the kids are distracted by the pancakes she throws one of Bree’s strawberries at his head, because he refuses to stop grinning.</p><p><em>Magic</em>, she’d thought, and thinks it now again.</p><p> </p><p>Their kitchen table is crowded and full for the fourth time that week when he finds all three of them lurking behind the kitchen doorway. They remind him oddly of the mice in one of those half-remembered too-old childrens’ tales his Da would tell him, with castles and moral quandaries. Or perhaps the rabbits from <em>Peter Rabbit</em>. They keep whispering among themselves, and Faith is clutching Bree’s favourite unicorn-emblazoned notebook against her skinny little chest like a talisman.</p><p>He leans down behind them, tea in hand, and peers around into the dining room as they are doing. William looks up at him with mournful solemnity.</p><p>“We’re havin’ a <em>meetin’</em>, Da.”</p><p>“Oh, aye,” he says, equally austere.</p><p>“Bree thinks she’s a witch,” William explains. “But <em>I’m</em> no’ so sure.”</p><p>“Faith took notes,” Bree whispers, “so we’ve <em>evidence</em> an’ things.” Brianna is recently a big proponent of <em>evidence</em>. Doubtless, this is an extension of her last-Friday bedtime routine, which involved being held upon Claire’s lap on the couch as the latest medical journal was read aloud.</p><p>Either way -- she is not as good at secretive whispers as Willie is. The declaration comes out in customarily expositive tones. </p><p>In the dining room, Fergus’s unwitting new girlfriend laughs a tinkling airy laugh, and places her hand over his arm. </p><p>Poor thing; she’s been visibly nervous all evening, Jamie thinks. It isn’t every day you’re brought home to a family this large. Certainly, anyone who’s sat across from Murtagh for a whole evening shall have hesitations. Unfortunately for her, he can’t help but judge her endurance against a younger Claire’s. </p><p>And -- well -- the children seem to have got <em>ideas</em>.</p><p>He pulls Willie over his knee and gives Bree his mug, because she has been eyeing it covetously over the top of her brother’s curly head, then watches in amusement as she takes a big gulp and grimaces because it’s missing the four dollops of honey that are prerequisite to her ability to drink a good cuppa.</p><p>He looks at Faith, gentle. She says,</p><p>“She doesn’t look the sort to have a fav’rite moral quality, Da,” with a doubtful inflection in her voice.</p><p>Fergus is two months into university and re-learning ways of being on his own. Jamie will have a walk with him later, perhaps, after dinner’s been cleared up. Just now, he can hear Claire’s warm tones from the dining room, kind and inviting but canny. </p><p>“I know, <em>a leannan</em>,” he says. </p><p>“Okay,” Faith says. Then she adds, “I s’pose it’s not fair t’witches to say they haven’t got moral qualities <em>all</em> the time.”</p><p>“Jus’ look at Auntie Geillis,” William agrees seriously, and it’s all Jamie can do not to spill Bree’s half-drank mug of tea as he smothers his laughter into the darling curve of his little boy’s cheek.</p><p> </p><p>Her flu segues out of a truly miserable Monday wherein she and Jamie row about the heating bill and Faith comes home from school uncharacteristically snappish and rude. Claire’s a better doctor than she is a patient -- she <em>knows</em> this -- but it’s still been a sort of punishment, being quarantined away in their bedroom, company-less and immobile. It’s not even as though she’s had the ability to leave if she <em>wanted</em> to, face-down in the bedding as she’s been all week.</p><p>Jamie had brought her homemade soup periodically and managed the rest of the house, which is enough responsibility on a good day that she can’t begrudge him the lack of anything past cursory sympathy. He was entrusted with making sure the delicate equilibrium of living didn’t fall down; it hasn’t. </p><p>Just the idea of it is enough to bring a lump to her throat and make her feel undeserving.</p><p>But that’s the virus talking. Her fever is gone now and her runny nose less faucet-like, so she ventures downstairs, wrapped in her bathrobe. </p><p>It’s past dinnertime. The table has been cleared away and the dishes done, but a bowl of leftovers remain on the table because through some marital sorcery Jamie knew she’d be feeling well enough to come down tonight. She stands and watches the evening tableau: the kids are halfway through <em>The Hobbit</em>, only they seem to have stopped the actual reading and are now pretending to be goblins. Or dwarves? Either way, Jamie has gracefully accepted the role of growling Villain. He’s large and intense enough that it always sends a genuine thrill through the kids; not necessarily good bedtime practice. But Bree is rocking backward against her chair with her knees tucked against her chest, dissolved into helpless giggles, and Willie is trapped between the table ledge and his father’s arm, positively glowing. He keeps alternating between bringing his fingers close to Jamie’s grinning mouth and then shrieking and pulling away when he lunges forward in a pretend bite.</p><p>“Mama!” </p><p>Faith’s not yet in her pajamas -- none of the children are -- and she appears, hovering, by the staircase railing. Her hair poofs in a cloud around her delicate features. Claire’s heart flips.</p><p>“Hi, baby,” she croaks.</p><p>Owlish eyes blink up at her behind thick glasses. “Are y’better now.”</p><p>“Much better, darling.”</p><p>She nods, then walks forward on soft footsteps and wraps her slim arms around Claire’s waist in the gentlest hug she’s ever received. </p><p>“Oh,” she says. “What’s wrong, Faithy?”</p><p>“Nothin’,” she mumbles. Her face is buried into the bathrobe. “I just missed hugging you, Mama.”</p><p>Claire swallows back that lump, returned in full force. Jamie looks up from the table and reaches up to take his reading glasses off. Willie keeps making goblin noises. Which basically amount to “<em>roar roar roar</em>”.</p><p>“Better now?” Jamie asks, in customary rumbling baritone.</p><p>“Better,” Claire says, holding Faith close to her.</p><p>He nods, and the week softens.</p><p> </p><p>They lie sleepy and sweaty atop the covers and listen to the chirping sounds of summertime outside the open window. Their month has been long and chaotic. Two surgeries that were way too close, a tenure application due, an outbreak of chickenpox in the paeds ward, William losing his backpack at school. </p><p>It ends with warmth and love and roaring laughter. </p><p>It’s a long weekend; long weekends mean Fergus visits from university, or they all go to Lallybroch. Last month they spent a long weekend camping with John and his boyfriend, higher north where there were mountains. “Da does like a good mountain,” Bree had explained seriously to Mrs. Fitz, when Claire went to pick them up after her Friday shift; Jamie had had a late lecture that day. The month before that, they had some students from the university over, and Joe and Gail, and Mrs. Graham from down the street, who lost her husband last year. </p><p>But even without long weekends, there seem to be people at her kitchen table. </p><p>When she was still in med school and hadn’t yet met Jamie, she doesn’t remember really having a kitchen table.</p><p>She turns her head now and watches his oddly-coloured lashes flutter over his cheekbones. Early twenties Claire would not have called lovemaking a communion of souls. Early twenties Claire probably would not have called <em>anything</em> a communion of souls.</p><p>Early twenties Claire was more or less a fool. She reaches out and touches his jaw, watching him smile.</p><p>“What,” she says.</p><p>“Nothin’. Ye look bonny.”</p><p>“Charmer.”</p><p>He snorts, then sighs, deeply. Claire says,</p><p>“Do you ever think about what we’re doing?”</p><p>He raises one eyebrow. “Physically, ye mean? I’d say we ken our way about that jus’ fine.”</p><p>“Raising a <em>family</em>,” Claire explains, but also blushes. It’s been -- how many years? He still pulls that blush out of her. </p><p>His eyes are twinkling.</p><p>“Ah,” Jamie says.</p><p>“I never thought I’d have one,” Claire says. “Like <em>this</em>,” she clarifies. Then, she says, “but I also feel like -- I don’t know. It’s bigger, than just our family.”</p><p>Jamie looks at her a long moment. It’s dark enough in their bedroom that she can’t really see the blue of his eyes, which is not disconcerting, but makes it all a bit more floaty. </p><p>She’s sure she isn’t making any sense, but he seems to be unpacking something within it anyway; she can feel the gears working in his head, half-dozing though they may be.</p><p>“I’d say it’s kind’ve all connected, Sassenach.”</p><p>Claire mulls this over. “Oh,” she says.</p><p>“Oh?” He’s laughing at her, but she doesn’t mind.</p><p>“It’s kind of scary that it’s all connected.”</p><p>“I dinna think so,” he says, quietly.</p><p>“Don’t you?”</p><p>“Claire,” he says, ever so gentle. That whole <em>communion of souls</em> thing, Claire thinks. He knows her so well. “I meant what I said. It doesna happen in boxes. Ye ken what my Mam says?”</p><p>She shakes her head, muffled against the pillow. There’s a soft breeze coming in through the window.</p><p>“Ye put love out intae the world, an’ it jest -- keeps goin’. An’ the world is -- weel, it’s a pretty big place.”</p><p>Claire thinks about this, for a long moment.</p><p>“Do you think the kids know that?” she asks, finally.</p><p>Jamie’s falling asleep again. But he says, “They’re learnin’, Sassenach. Dinna fash.”</p><p>She drifts off smiling, hand against his.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>also I just realized that without meaning to in this universe ellen is just. alive? good for her</p></blockquote></div></div>
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